1971: The Other Side of the Story
By Ghazala Akbar
Kuwait
Like the story of the Indian rebellion of 1857, the bloody civil conflict of 1971 in East Pakistan -- which led to the dismemberment of Pakistan, has largely been chronicled from one side. In the accusations of genocide and arguments over body counts, it is often forgotten that there were two sets of victims: East Pakistani Bengalis who suffered incalculably, but also -- and – very importantly, Non-Bengali settlers and West Pakistanis living and working in what was for them a part of Pakistan. Caught in the crossfire, forced to take sides, brutally victimised as convenient soft-targets for reprisals, their version has often been sidelined, or simply, forgotten.
Stung by defeat and in the interests of political expediency, one side brushed its shameful deeds under the carpet while the other, the victorious side, appropriating sole rights to history, air-brushed its own role in the exacerbation of that carnage. In the early days of the crisis in March 1971 when the civil disobedience movement was launched, attacks on persons and property had already begun, forming a violent backdrop to the ongoing political drama. Censorship on news imposed by the Military Authorities in 1971 (and the civilian Government that followed) created an erroneous impression in later years that there was just one dimension to the tragedy: Pakistan Army versus Separatists. The story of the other civil conflict was strangulated and buried with indecent haste in the general mayhem. It was not deemed worthy of reportage, attention or sympathy.
Pain suffered by one party does not cancel or justify the suffering of the other. A new book, Sips from a Broken Teacupby Raihana Ashhad Hasan provides a much-needed counterweight in the imbalance of documented grief. It is an eye-witness account, a survivor’s story of 1971. In the past forty years, we have had soldierly accounts of battles and betrayals; mildly apologetic references in works of fiction and garble masquerading as official history but there is an acute shortage of first-person narratives from the actual victims themselves – those who lived to tell the tale. Hasan’s moving memoirs fill an important gap in our erudition.
It is rightly said that you can’t judge a book by its cover! Indeed, the peaceful bungalow and the sub-title ‘Sketches of life on an Assamese Tea Plantation’ on the jacket give no hint of the multi–layered political content inside. Spanning more than a decade, the author’s experiences as the wife of a tea planter in Sylhet is a personal memoir that coincides with a crucial period in Pakistani history: Ayub Khan’s Great Decade, the ‘65 war with India, the Agartala Conspiracy Case and the concomitant rise of Bengali nationalism. It culminates in the bloody events triggered by the General Election of 1970. However, it is not a dry or biased narrative. Far from it. Time and distance have given the author a mature perspective that was not available in the fog of war or in the bitterness of its immediate aftermath. This is the voice of the ordinary citizens of East Pakistan, of the horror people suffered, both sides of the divide. The book re-affirms that no side has a monopoly on history or victimhood: both were victims of circumstances. Both had points of view that were equally valid; both suffered the consequences of organised violence in equal measure.
‘The past is a foreign country...they do things differently there’, reflected L. P. Hartley in the first chapter of the Go-between. This meaningful observation aptly exemplifies the life that Hasan describes in the earlier chapters. She arrives as a young bride to East Pakistan in 1960 when the Tea Plantations of Sylhet are in many ways the last outpost of the ‘Raj’. In idyllic but often rudimentary surroundings, intrepid men and women strive to maintain high standards and a veneer of civilisation with a stiff upper lip. With subtle humour and a satirical eye, she introduces us to a motley crew of seemingly eccentric characters. A Dr. ‘Cha Cha’ spouts Keats even as he falls of the floor; a blue-eyed fair-skinned female works as an Ayah – an outcome of not-so-discreet liaisons, between European planters and local ‘Bibis’. Interspersed with some highly amusing episodes, the author furnishes a fascinating and well-researched history of the back-breaking business of tea – a brew we readily take for granted -- unaware of the complicated chain in bringing it to our tea-pots.
Not unlike the cotton plantations in the Deep South, this was a way of life and civilisation destined for the scrap heap of history, to be gone with the wind. Underneath the genteel exterior, bonhomie and camaraderie there is simmering anger, born of political discontent and racial tension. When the results of the General Election of 1970, (ironically the first ever ‘free and fair polls held in the country), is not acceptable to the ruling Army Junta, or the winner in West Pakistan, ZA Bhutto, Bengalis are rightly enraged. Technically, the Awami League with a complete majority should form the next Government. Instead, alarm bells ring at the GHQ. The issue is not so simple. The National Assembly must also frame a Constitution in which West Pakistan will have little say. As the Junta prevaricates and plots, Sheikh Mujib calls for non-violent, non-co-operation. Law and order collapses as the citizenry vent their frustration in xenophobic nationalism. Non-Bengalis bear the brunt of the anger directed at the Generals. On Pakistan Day, the crescent and star is desecrated. East Pakistan is in a state of open revolt.
Up there in the drawing rooms of Sylhet, the planters feel the strain. Battle lines are drawn on ethnic and linguistic lines. Friends become temporary foes eyeing each other with mutual distrust and suspicion. Loyalties are put to the test. Everyone is in a state of nervous frenzy as news filters from Dacca of the growing political deadlock. Even neutral Europeans are uneasy. Being apolitical is not an option. Either you are with us or against us. Suffering an inopportune miscarriage the author wakes up groggily in a hospital. The nurses question her about her political views: is she Urdu-speaking? What does she think of HER Bhutto’s latest statements? Even ‘sedated patients are expected to engage in political debate’ she observes wryly. ‘He is not MY Bhutto’ she retorts.
As tanks roll into Dacca University on March 25 th, the whole province is inflamed. It is civil war. Atrocities are met with counter atrocities as the Army struggles to establish its writ. With their Bengali friends equally under attack and unable to protect them, the author and her family are forced to flee for their lives across the border—ironically -- as fugitives toward their ancestral home in India. Under false pretences, they undertake a hazardous train journey. It is touch and go whether they will make it or not. The place is teeming with Bengali refugees, freedom fighters and Naxalites. Mrs. Gandhi has ordered the arrest of any incoming West Pakistanis. Many are in Agartala jail. She does not want ‘their’ story to get out, as this runs counter to the prevailing narrative of singular Pakistan army brutality.
Through a set of fortuitous circumstances and the help of sympathetic Indian officials, they make it to Gorakhpur. Beseeched by elderly relatives to stay on permanently in India, they take their chances and head riskily towards the Pakistan border. Again, kindly Indian authorities help facilitate their ‘escape’ to Pakistan. When the family finally cross GandaSinghwala into familiar territory, it is a goose-bump-inducing moment. The green flag flutters to the sound of Nur Jehan’s ‘Merya Dhol Sipahia’ wafting in the distance. The harsh realities of sub-continental politics re-surface when they are politely detained for a de-briefing by Pakistani Intelligence agents. Their story checks out and they are free to enter Lahore.
This is a tour de force, and a very satisfying read. I took my time over it, savouring each chapter like a sip from a strong cup of tea. After initial chuckles, I experienced a sense of déjà vu, a familiar knot in the stomach when the author chillingly narrates certain political developments and the havoc they wreaked -- in her secure life – and the lives of so many others. As the cry of ‘Joy Bangla’ roared in the distance, it promised hope and liberation to millions but a sense of dark foreboding to those who felt marginalised by its narrow ethnicity. I have been very fortunate in later life – returning happily to re-connect with family and friends, marvelling at the country’s progress -- but I know many who have still not recovered from the trauma of displacement. Tragically, many of those families were also on the receiving end in 1947. To be rendered homeless or stateless again in 1971 was a cruel twist of fate.
This book deserves a mandatory readership: in amnesia-prone Pakistan, righteously - indignant Bangladesh and not–so–innocent – India. All three have a skewed version of events that need re-appraisal and re-evaluation. In Pakistan, there is guilt which needs to be formally admitted; in Bangladesh, a concession that blood spilt was not theirs alone; and in India, a recognition that Indian complicity in the break-up has elicited revanchist India-centric policies for over four decades. Hasan’s allusion to Indian saboteurs accompanying and directing mobs is a significant disclosure. Often dismissed as self-serving propaganda, even by some in Pakistan today – it was a crucial element in the senseless violence directed against Non-Bengalis that often resulted in retaliatory heavy-handedness by the Pakistan Army.
One hopes that Hasan’s well-crafted account will encourage other survivors to articulate and document their own histories. There are many still racked by painful memories of that fateful year. Their silence is compounded with the frustration that their pain has never been understood, acknowledged or documented in any meaningful way. Hasan’s book goes some way in ameliorating that grievance. Perhaps the Oral History Project: Citizen’s Archive of Pakistan, an admirable body of work initiated by the Oscar-winner Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy can also accommodate the experiences of the 1971 survivors. Pakistan or South Asia needs no further ethnic cleansing or bloody divisions but a remembrance of things past is no bad thing. Books like these provide a catharsis that is necessary before we can move on and close the chapter for good.
Sips from a Broken Teacup by Raihana A Hasan 354 pages has been published by Ushba Publishing International and is available at www.ushbabooks.com;ushababooks@gmail.com
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